


To Need Another

by AndStarsMayCollide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndStarsMayCollide/pseuds/AndStarsMayCollide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day, Sherlock takes Redbeard on a walk to the park. Every day, they sit alone on a bench. That is, until one day a little blonde boy and a dog show up. And that makes all the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Need Another

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely readers! This is my first Sherlock fic, and my first fic on AO3 (so I'm not promising anything.) It's a platonic child!johnlock friendship. I have to warn you, I cried while writing it, and with the best intentions, I hope it makes you cry, too. 
> 
> Another thing I have to warn you about is to pay attention to the dates, because otherwise you could get a little lost. Also, for the purposes of this fic, Sherlock and John are the same age.
> 
> I would love any and all feedback you can give me. Enjoy, and thanks for reading :)

**Day 1**

Every day since he was six years old, Sherlock took Redbeard out on a walk. The blessed time alone with his dog was a form of meditation for the boy, who was now nine years of age. Every day it was the same: shortly after dinner, the boy and his best friend departed their home in London and made their way to a cozy park a couple miles away. The park was cloaked in heavy layers of greenery and was almost always devoid of people (just how Sherlock preferred his parks.) After pounding pavement together for over half an hour, they would stop at the park’s only bench to have a rest and think. Sherlock was an incredible child by most standards; he possessed skills of observation and deduction which far surpassed most adults, and that was not to mention his aptitude for science and learning. Occasionally, he would bring a leather satchel along to the bench filled with books to study. Usually, though, he would just enjoy the serene environment with his dog and explore the contents of his own brain for a while. Then, they would continue around the looped path which would lead them back home. The routine rarely varied, not even for the weather.

That is, until one day, a small blond boy with a terrier by his side were already sitting on the bench when Sherlock and Redbeard arrived.

Quickly, Sherlock assessed the situation. The child was about the same age as Sherlock, but considerably shorter. He wore a yellow corduroy jacket over a gray sweater and a pair of brown trousers. The boy’s legs swung back and forth below the bench. He looked into the distance with the gaze of a person who is in another world. Seated patiently on the ground beside him was a Norfolk terrier, wearing a collar adorned with a shiny metal tag. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was leading Redbeard over to sit on the opposite side of the bench.

“I see you’ve got the chore of walking your sister’s dog today, eh?” Sherlock said as he perched himself on the edge of the seat, without even glancing at the boy to whom he was speaking.

“Em...what?” stuttered the other child..

Sherlock allowed himself the slightest of grins. “And you don’t mind. I mean, of course you didn’t tell your sister that. You love that dog, and you love walking it, but you want her to take responsibility.”

The child gaped at Sherlock. “How did you-”

“Simple.” Sherlock finally met the other boy’s eyes. If experience had told him anything, the kid would be running away in a matter of moments.

But this boy did not run. In fact, he stared deep into Sherlock, and demanded, “No, not simple. Who are you? How did you know that?”

“No matter.” Sherlock was utterly confused. They usually were a mile away by this point, why was this boy not a mile away? His hard drive was filling up fast. _Find something else, quickly._

“Your sister’s older, is she not?” Sherlock continued, once again looking straight ahead, “My guess is by five or six years. However, she’s a bit of a tomboy, and she smokes. These both displease your parents, so they spend a lot of time trying to fix her. Hmm, that explains why they’re fairly absent from your life. I suppose dealing with a case like hers would take up most of a person’s time, yes. They got her the dog in the hopes that she would develop some sense of mothership or responsibility, but you’ve been taking care of it for her, as previously mentioned.”

The other boy was slack-jawed. His eyes were open wide, swimming with the colors of an ocean. His brow creased. But he still wasn’t leaving.

Sherlock felt the pink rising to his own pale cheeks. This had never happened before. Redbeard whined.

The other boy scowled. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m-”

By the time he finished his sentence, Sherlock was speeding away, with Redbeard barking by his side.

**Day 2**

The next day, Sherlock walked down his usual path hesitantly. The odds that the other boy would return the bench today were slim. 20%, if he had calculated correctly. For reassurance, Sherlock had brought his satchel and a few books to keep him blissfully ignorant if the boy appeared and started shouting at him.

As they drew near the bench, Redbeard stopped in his tracks. Sherlock looked up, startled. There on the bench sat the boy from yesterday.

In the split second it took for the other boy to notice him, Sherlock had already made a decision. Briskly, he continued down the path, dragging Redbeard along with him.

“Hey, you!” the kid called from the bench as Sherlock wordlessly crossed in front of him, “Hey! I want to talk to you!” His tone was not menacing; rather, curious. Still, Sherlock’s veins pumped with adrenalin. He ignored the boy shouting at him from the bench and sped home.

When he slammed his front door nearly an hour earlier than usual, Mycroft pursed his lips, rolled his eyes, and asked, “What’s got you in such a rush, little brother?”

Sherlock silently dashed up the staircase to his room. He curled up into a ball on the carpet and plunged his face into Redbeard’s fur.

**Day 3**

Sherlock didn’t go back to the bench that day. He didn’t go out at all. Instead, he set Redbeard loose in the Holmes’ expansive backyard to let him exercise, then receded into the house and examined some bread mold under the microscope.

When Mycroft pointed out that he was supposed to be gone by this time, Sherlock just shrugged and muttered something about feeling ill.

“Probably all that mold you’ve been playing with,” Mycroft snorted, “It’s frying your brain.”

 _I know what’s frying my brain,_ Sherlock thought, _and it certainly isn’t the mold._

**Day 4**

Again, Sherlock relinquished his evening walk. He wasn’t completely sure why that boy from the park was putting him in such a state. Maybe it was his bold defiance of the norm (the norm, demonstrated by all of Sherlock’s classmates, was fear of his astonishingly accurate deductions.) Maybe it was the way the boy had stared him down, with those round eyes that seemed to hold oceans. Hell, maybe it was that Sherlock had been more than a little intimidated, an extremely rare occurrence. Either way, that boy had Sherlock spooked. But it wasn't like Sherlock was going to give up his treasured walks forever. He needed to conciliate himself and the situation.

_The situation._

__

**Day 5**

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then, with Redbeard by his side, strode to the bench and took a seat.

“I suppose you want to know where I’ve been, and how I knew all those things about you,” Sherlock murmured nervously.

The boy looked up, noticing Sherlock. “Oh, hello--”

But Sherlock cut him off. “This is clearly not your dog, just look at his collar,” he said, gesturing to the tag on the puppy on the other side of the bench. It read: _ALFIE. For Harriet, Love Mummy and Daddy._

“You don’t seem like a Harriet, do you,” Sherlock continued, “But because of the animal’s comfort with you, I deduced that it must be your dog, too. A sister is the most logical explanation: you must be taking care of him for her. But you didn’t mind, you were leaning towards the dog, just like you are now, showing your affection for him.”

Sherlock looked up to see the boy’s eyes wide, just as they had been on the first day. Not allowing himself to be distracted by the orbs’ beauty, he went on.

“Now, take a look at your jacket,” Sherlock directed, staring pointedly at the golden corduroy number, “It’s clearly a girl’s cut, not anything you would have bought for yourself. I date it at 5, maybe 6 years old, judging by the wear and style. That makes your sister, the most likely candidate for a hand-me-down, approximately five years older. I did get that correct, didn’t I?”

The boy nodded, staring into Sherlock’s soul again. Sherlock shivered.

“The cuffs are burned, a result of frequent cigarette smoking. But you don’t smell like smoke, and neither does the jacket, so obviously you’ve done some work to get the stench out. Parents tend to not appreciate young girls smoking, so you probably don’t receive as much care from them, which explains why you cut your own hair--”

The boy reached up and self-consciously touched his jagged, golden hairline.

“--and also why they got her the dog in the first place. But she’s irresponsible, so you take care of it for her. Hi, my name’s Sherlock Holmes, what’s yours?”

There was a silence. And then, the boy inhaled and mumbled, “J-John. M-my name is John Watson.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, getting a sense of how the name rolled across his tongue, “John. Biblical name, originally from Hebrew, meaning ‘God is good.’”

“Sherlock,” the boy replied, a small smile rippling across his face, “A mad name for a mad person.”

Sherlock giggled. John was clever. He liked clever.

“Oh, and this is Alfie, as you already know,” John said, “What’s yours named?”

“Redbeard.”

The boys looked down to see the two pups sniffing at each other. Redbeard found no apparent issues with the other dog, and lay down on the ground next to him. Alfie followed suit.

“So you seem to already know a lot of things about my life,” John remarked, “Mind telling me about yourself so I can get to know you?”

“Um...okay,” Sherlock replied hesitantly. No one ever asked him about himself. “I’m Sherlock, I’m nine years old, I’m in sixth year at--”

“You’re _nine_ and you’re in _sixth_ year?” John interrupted, “I’m nine too, but I’m only in third!”

“They moved me up. They said I was too smart to be with the others.” Sherlock kicked himself, suddenly realizing that this sounded cocky. “I don’t really like it much, though. What I mean is, I miss being with kids my own age. The twelve year olds all think I’m a freak. I suppose it’s understandable.”

“Well, freaky, sure, but that thing you did was also brilliant,” John said, and then reddened.

Sherlock smiled shyly. “I’m glad you’re not afraid of me. I was a bit surprised when you didn’t run away, that’s all.”

“So that’s why you didn’t come back the last couple of days?”

Sherlock nodded, averting his eyes. “I thought… I suppose I thought you…”

“It’s okay,” John affirmed, and Sherlock relaxed. “So, you really just knew all that stuff about me from one glance?”

“Over the years, I’ve fine-tuned my brain. It’s like a library up there. I can retain, process, or even delete large portions of information as needed.”

“That’s...wow. That’s the neatest thing I’ve ever heard. Even _deleting?_ ”

They continued to converse for a while longer. John told about his junior rugby team, and Sherlock disclosed his secret passion for dance. It turned out that their families, while in different socioeconomic classes, had similar problems. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to learn that John, a mere nine year old and average by most standards, could hold intelligent conversation better than the teenagers in his own year.

When the setting sun began casting a rusty glow over the treetops, both boys agreed that it was time to return to their homes.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock said.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” replied John, and with a quick movement, had grabbed the taller boy in a hug. Sherlock was startled, but easily melted into John’s arms.

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock whispered.

“Tomorrow.”

They went their separate ways with grins on their faces.

**Day 10**

Every day for the past few days, Sherlock and Redbeard journeyed out to the park to greet John and Alfie. The four congregated around the bench and talked. It was refreshing.

“I have an idea,” John said as he approached the bench that day.

“Do tell,” Sherlock grinned.

From his backpack, John produced a red rubber ball. He tossed it down the path, yelling, “Fetch!”

Redbeard pulled his leash right out of Sherlock’s unprepared hand and tore after the ball. Alfie followed. Both dogs reached the ball, and Redbeard picked it up with his teeth and dutifully brought it back to John.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly. “What kind of game is this?”

“Fetch!” John repeated, beaming at Sherlock, “Haven’t you ever played fetch with Redbeard before?”

“No.”

“Well, why not?” John handed the slobbery ball to Sherlock.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You saw me. Throw it, of course!”

“Throw it?”

“So the pups can go and fetch it, Sherlock!”

Hesitantly, Sherlock tossed the ball to the ground a meter away from him.

“You’ve got to throw it a little further than that,” John guided.

Sherlock picked it up again, then pitched it 60 meters down the path. The dogs raced after it. Alfie got to it first this time.

In a moment, both pups were back at Sherlock’s feet, panting giddily while dropping the drool-coated ball on the ground. John watched expectantly. Sherlock looked down at dogs, letting his curls fall into his face. Then, he began to laugh. He laughed so hard he collapsed on the bench.

“Are you okay?” John asked, shaking with laughter as he sat down next to him.

“Fetch! It’s just so... _stupid!_ ” Sherlock panted.

John’s face fell.

“Oh, John! I just don’t understand how something so completely, utterly _stupid_ is so much _fun!_ ”

Sherlock promptly picked up the slobbery ball and threw it across the park, dashing along with the rowdy dogs. The other boy grinned after him. There were so many sides to Sherlock, and John was keen on examining each and every one of them.

**Day 22**

The two boys dropped to the bench simultaneously.

“I had the _worst_ day today,” John moaned.

“You go first,” Sherlock said, “And then I’ll tell you about my awful day.”

John proceeded to outline his day. It started with being rudely awoken by the sound of Harriet fighting with their mum. School was a bust as well: a mean boy named Alan teased him about the length of his pants (admittedly, they were a few inches short, but there was no need to be cruel about it.) His rugby coach removed him from a drill to yell at him about his slow running speed, and then his dad was a half hour late to pick him up.

“I’m incredibly sorry,” Sherlock murmured after the story. He then began to tell John about how Mycroft stopped in his classroom to drop something off, and immediately called him out, asking him about his “urinary challenges” and “crush on the teacher,” both of which were fictitious. He arrived home to see his grandfather sitting in the parlor, who treated him to a barrage of insults regarding his experiments. Sherlock was told that he could never make a career out of fooling around with scientific instruments, the real money was in business, and the only thing that would come out of a passion for science was a smelly room.

John patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll carry on,” he said solemnly.

“I know we will,” Sherlock sighed, a smile crossing his face for the first time all day. “Hey, do you know anything about Mars?”

“The god or the planet?”

“The planet, of course,” Sherlock chucked, “The god, while fascinating in historical context, isn’t real. Anyways, they recently started thinking that someday, maybe, people might be able to live on planet Mars.”

“No way,” John gasped.

“It’s true!” Sherlock gesticulated wildly, causing Alfie and Redbeard to yelp.

John laughed. “Settle down, boys!”

Sherlock continued. “I think someday I’d like to build a house on Mars.  A nice little bungalow, or maybe an apartment. Nothing too lavish. Just a place to come home every day.”

“Can I come too?” John asked, his eyes growing wide.

“You’re the only one I’d let come with me, John. So it’s settled. When we’re all grown up, and once they’ve worked out a way to get there, we’ll move to Mars.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

**Day 36**

They had declared it a reading day. The two boys sat back-to-back on the bench, each comforted by the support and warmth of the other. John held a copy of Roald Dahl’s _James and the Giant Peach._ Sherlock had _On the Origin of Species._

“John?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“Hmm?”

“Are we...friends?”

John laughed. “Well, I would hope so, of course! Why are you asking that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend before.”

“What?” John sputtered, twisting his head around to look at Sherlock, “What do you mean you’ve never had a friend before?”

“Come on, John, it’s not that hard to imagine.”

“What did you do for fun when you were little, then?”

“I played with Redbeard. I read books. Mycroft taught me to read when I was thirteen months old.”

“Yeah, but…wow. I really am your first friend, huh?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Do you have other friends?”

“Sure. I have my rugby team, and Harriet, and a couple people from school…”

Sherlock frowned.

“...but you’re my favorite. You’re my best friend ever.”

Sherlock glowed like the setting sun above their heads.

****  
  


**Day 54**

“Aren’t you cold?”

It was early November now. The trees were nearly bare, the tips of the grass frosty, and the park bathed in that lovely golden tone that signified it was almost winter. Sherlock had adorned a wool coat to adjust to the conditions. John, however, was still wearing that old yellow corduroy number.

“Um...no, I’m not cold.”

“John, you’ve got to be joking! It’s nearly freezing out here.”

“It’s okay, I’m perfectly alright,” he mumbled.

“Why don’t you wear a different coat? That one’s-”

“Sherlock-”

“All I’m saying is that you should wear a-”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s not that hard to put on a-”

“I DON’T OWN ANOTHER COAT, SHERLOCK.”

The silence was deafening.

“...oh.”

John shifted his weight. “Can we just talk about something else now, please?”

“Sure. I’m doing an experiment back at home. Do you want to hear about it?”

Sherlock went on to describe the intricacies of magnesium’s reactions to extreme heat. John smiled and nodded and asked interesting questions, but it was hard to ignore the small boy’s shivering.

**Day 55**

There was an unexpected spring in Sherlock’s step that day. He couldn’t explain it himself; his stride was buoyant and his pace rivaled Redbeard’s, despite the satchel on his shoulder and the frigid temperature. When he gained sight of the bench, he waved cheerily at John, who was understandably skeptical.

“Hi. Sherlock, you seem...friendlier than usual. Polite. Like the sort of son your parents would want to take to fancy dinner parties. Was Mycroft nice to you today?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I haven’t noticed an increase in his overall pleasantness, no.”

“Then what’s--” John stopped, observing Sherlock’s satchel, “Wait, was today a reading day? I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any books!”

“No, it wasn’t! Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, placating John’s tense expression, “I brought you something.”

Sherlock opened the flap of his bag. Carefully, he extracted a heather gray wool peacoat with yellow buttonholes.

“Sh-Sherlock…” John whispered, “I…”

“It’s for you. Have it.” He offered it to the other boy, who was slumping and bowing his head.

“I can’t.”

Sherlock’s forehead creased in bafflement. It was freezing outside, for christ’s sake! A few more degrees and it would be snowing, and John wouldn’t put on a coat.

“Come on, John. I don’t want you to die of cold! I had a great uncle who went hiking in the Alps and ended up dying of pneumonia, it was terrible. I brought you mittens, too. Try them on!”

John’s hands gripped the edge of the bench. He didn’t say anything.

“Okay then, tell me why you won’t take the coat.”

John inhaled as if he was bracing himself. “Because,” he choked, “It’s not mine.”

“What do you mean, it’s not yours? I’m giving it to you, why-”

“I don’t need your bloody charity. I’m fine on my own.”

To Sherlock, that was more biting than the icy weather. Struggling to control his trembling body, he placed the coat on the bench between them. Then he got up, dragged Redbeard away from Alfie by the leash, and dashed down the path with tears in his eyes.

**Day 56**

Sherlock contemplated not returning to the bench. John’s comment about “not needing him” was persistently bothersome. It was odd: typically, Sherlock was the lone wolf, the introverted child who was happiest alone. Despite this description, he had become somewhat reliant on his time with John. His walks with Redbeard had always been medicinal, but now they were like a lifeline.

About five minutes after the time Sherlock would’ve usually left, Mycroft barged into his room.

“Hello, dear brother,” Mycroft drawled, “Mother wants to know if you will be joining us when we go to the James’ tea party this Sunday afternoon. I told her not to bother, you’d be too embarrassing, but she insisted I ask.”

Sherlock curled up into a ball and didn’t reply.

“My god, you’re a nutter,” Mycroft moaned with an eye roll, “Why don’t you have any friends?”

Sherlock growled.

“I don’t claim to be popular or anything, but at least I have a few friends. You don’t have anybody. People think it’s weird.”

With that, Sherlock snapped. He leaped to his feet and rushed downstairs, attached Redbeard to his leash, and grabbed his satchel. Before he thought through what he was doing, he was out the door and on the path to the bench.

When he was halfway there, however, he began to have second thoughts. John had explicitly said he didn’t need Sherlock, didn’t want him there at all. But Redbeard’s fast pace guided him, making it hard to turn back. Soon, he glimpsed John on the bench. With the weight of a thousand tons, Sherlock’s heart dropped to his stomach.

John was hunched over, Alfie in his lap. He was shaking slightly, and looked as small as Sherlock had ever seen him. The boy’s head turned when he heard the approaching footsteps. There were those oceanic eyes again, wet with tears and outlined in lines of concern.

“Sherlock,” John quavered, “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

The taller boy rushed to his side. “It’s okay, you’re okay, don’t cry…”

“No it’s not!” John cried, “I realized right after you left yesterday that you weren’t being mean at all. You were trying to help. It’s really cold and I don’t have a better coat, and most kids at my school would just tease me, but not you. I said that I didn’t need you, but god, Sherlock. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. If we had never met each other I-- I don’t know what I’d do.”

Sherlock was taken aback. This was possibly the most emotion he’d ever seen a human being show, outside of the movies.

“That’s okay. I would’ve done the same in your position,” Sherlock choked.

“Thank you,” John said, and wrapped his arms around the other boy. Sherlock tensed, but as usual, John’s embrace was warm and inviting and it was easy to lose himself in it.

When they disconnected, John shivered. “Sherlock, do you… I don’t want to be pushy, but do you still have that coat?”

Sherlock produced the jacket from his bag once again. Carefully, he wrapped it around John’s shoulders.

“Thanks. I owe you one,” John smiled.

“Don’t worry about it. I owe you a million.”

**Day 57**

Today was important, and Sherlock could feel it. He had just discovered a strain of bacteria that he hadn’t been able to identify in any published book. As he and Redbeard raced to the bench, he imagined breaking the news to John. Oh, how excited they would be together! Mycroft had only scoffed, but John would know just what to say.

Redbeard made a noise, somewhere between a growl and a moan. Sherlock observed their surroundings. There was the empty bench. Obviously, John hadn’t arrived yet. Something was different today.

Under the bench lay a lone Norfolk terrier.

“Alfie!” Sherlock cried. He raced over to the bench where the dog was cowering. “Alfie, what are you doing here all by yourself? Where’s John?”

Quickly, the possibilities cycled through Sherlock’s head. There was no reason why Alfie would be here without his John unless…

Sherlock picked up the small dog and began running. Something horrible must’ve happened.

It occurred to Sherlock that he didn’t know where John lived. He resorted to following the way from which he usually saw the other boy walking, but it didn’t take long before he came across a fork in the road. Picking a random path, he proceeded, thinking nothing but “ _John_ needs me. John _needs_ me. John needs _me_.”

He ran with reckless abandon. Fear was rapidly overtaking Sherlock’s mechanisms. Alfie squirmed in his arms.

Panting, he came upon a town square. The road was crowded with cars skewed in all directions. In the center of the square were two trucks with dents in their fronts. It was clearly a messy accident. A few meters away from the wreckage stood a news crew: a pretty blonde reporter checking herself in a compact mirror, and a burly man wrestling with camera equipment.

“You’re on in 5, 4, 3, 2…” the man yelled, straightening up and turning on his camera.

“Hello, I’m here on the corner of Circus and Kingsmill, where there has just been a devastating accident. Just 10 minutes ago, Paul Ackerman made an illegal right turn onto Circus, crashing into a young pedestrian on the crosswalk and into a truck in the left lane. Investigators suspect Mr. Ackerman was under the influence of alcohol. No deaths reported so far, although Mr. Ackerman and the child pedestrian he hit are on now their way to the hospital with severe injuries. Aha! I have with me now Miss Petunia Cooper, who was driving her truck on Circus when she was hit by Paul Ackerman. Petunia, do you have anything to offer the audience?”

Sherlock couldn’t listen idly anymore. He felt compelled to confirm his suspicion, no matter how desperately he didn’t want it to be true.

“Excuse me!” Sherlock yelled, rushing to the reporter and her witness, “Can you describe the pedestrian who was hit?”

“Um...sure,” Petunia Cooper stuttered, obviously flustered, “He was a little boy, maybe nine or ten years old, blonde, sort of chubby cheeks, and he was wearing a grey coat.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to control himself. “And to which hospital were the victims taken?”

“The University College Hospital...wait!”

Sherlock was already rushing down the road again.

***

“Hi, is there a patient named John Watson here?”

The receptionist looked down at her records, then surveyed Sherlock’s tear-stained cheeks over her pink horn-rimmed glasses.

“Yes,” she replied, popping her chewing gum, “He’s currently in the ICU.”

“Can I see him?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. In most cases, we don’t let non-family members see our patients while they’re in the ICU. Are you a family member? What’s your name?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And I’m his best friend.”

The receptionist scanned his wide, watery eyes. “I’ll tell you what. You can wait here until they’ll let you into see him. Except--oh! Darling, we don’t allow dogs in here.”

Sherlock sighed. “Is there anywhere they can stay while I wait for John?”

The receptionist rolled her eyes. “I suppose I can put them in my office. Just for a bit, alright?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” He gave both the pups a quick pat, then resigned himself to a waiting room chair.

 _I suppose it can’t hurt to close my eyes,_ he thought, and slipped into a restless slumber.

***

Hours later, Sherlock was awoken by the receptionist.

“Darling. Your friend John is conscious. His parents still aren’t here, but I think I can sneak you in to visit him now.”

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and followed the woman down a corridor and up two flights of stairs. Outside one of the rooms, three doctors were engaged in a hushed conversation.

“Doctor Varga,” the receptionist whispered, calling the attention of the tallest doctor, “I have him.”

“Ah, yes. Hello,” the doctor greeted, dropping down on one knee to look Sherlock in the eye. “My name Doctor Varga. John is conscious, but he’s sustained severe head trauma, and we believe he may have a form of amnesia. Don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t--”

“Can I see him now?”

“Yes. But be careful, he may not know who you are. He doesn’t even remember his own--”

Sherlock pushed past the doctors and opened the door to the private room.

The walls were barren, except one poster of frolicking puppies. In the opposite corner, there were a series of machines (Sherlock mentally identified them as an intravenous pump, a hemedex monitor, a licox, and a vitals monitor, among others.) And at the center of all these contraptions was John.

His features were lax, his eyes open but unseeing. He wore a paper gown. His head was covered in blood-soaked bandages. He didn’t really look like the boy Sherlock had come to know. Like. Love.

“John.”

The cracked whisper ricocheted off the walls. The boy in the bed’s head turned, but he looked straight through Sherlock.

“John, it’s me. It’s Sherlock.” Tears were welling in his eyes now, threatening to spill onto his face. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“John doesn’t remember you. He doesn’t remember himself. Chances are--”

“John!” Sherlock raced towards the bed and took the hand of the ailing boy. “John! JOHN!’

He was met with the gaze of a stranger.

And then he was being pulled out of the room by strong arms, and despite his struggles, ushered back down into the waiting room. His vicious sobs were ignored.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. You’re going to have to leave now. Let’s get your dogs.”

The pups were thrust at him.

“N-no,” he moaned, “No, I can’t. I can’t. Alfie is J-- Alfie isn’t…”

Struck by the need to leave, Sherlock grabbed Redbeard by the leash and sprinted away. For the third time that night, he was dashing through the streets of London, but now, he didn’t care anymore.

In an amount of time that was simultaneously as quick as a wink and a thousand years, he was back home. He crashed through the door, tears dried on his face and aching sobs leaking out of him.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” sneered Mycroft from the couch. Sherlock looked at the grandfather clock in their foyer. It was nearly seven in the morning.

“You’ve been out all night,” Mycroft continued, “How? It’s not like you have any friends to stay with.”

Sherlock became a tornado. As soon as the bedroom door shut behind him, he thrust his body down on the bed. He thrashed until the covers were a mess around his weakened figure, crying silently and without tears. He had run dry.

He had heard stories of people who committed suicide. Never had he understood what could make someone need to do that. Now he felt it like a drowning person needing oxygen.

With the stature of someone who just wrote their own death sentence, he sat upright. His hands templed.

_The only way to resolve his need was to wash it away entirely._

So Sherlock Holmes deleted every memory of John Watson from his mind.

**  
**  
The end. 


End file.
